


Unlearn The Constellations

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Here Lies the Abyss Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment arrives; Hawke leaps. </p><p>Snapshots bookending "Here Lies The Abyss".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unlearn The Constellations

Eylis finds Varric in the Herald’s Rest, a mug of ale untouched in front of him, and his head cradled in both his hands. He doesn’t look up when she slides into the seat across from his. 

She lets him be while she turns around to signal for her own mug, surprised — and yet not at all surprised — to find one already on its way to her. Everyone who works in the Herald’s Rest treats it as a matter of pride that she never has to actually  _ask_  for a drink, much less pay for one, and if she’s still not used to the automatic deference, Eylis won’t turn down the gesture. She takes the mug with a smile that sends the young tavern maid into a blush and awkward curtsy, then turns back to Varric. 

He hasn’t moved a muscle. 

Eylis savors her first sip of ale, rolling it around her mouth before swallowing and sighing. It’s been a long day: training with Vivienne, council with her advisors, dinner with a group of visiting dignitaries from —

_I can’t even remember_ , she thinks, swallowing another mouthful of ale.  _Some lord from Emprise du Lion, maybe?_

At least they hadn’t seemed to mind that the Inquisitor was a Dalish elf, and a mage besides. And Josephine hadn’t noticed when she’d forgotten which fork went with which course — and thank goodness Cassandra had been there to subtly point her toward the right one. Still, even with those crises diverted, it’s been a long day, and she wants to finish her ale in peace, then make her way to bed. Without a doubt, she’ll have to do it all over again tomorrow, and the day after that, until the Exalted Plains are scouted to Leliana’s satisfaction and Lavellan can escape diplomacy for a few days of nothing more complicated than killing darkspawn or Venatori. 

_My definition of_ complicated  _has undergone a substantial revision since Haven._

Varric sighs, and finally drops his hands. “Cassandra’s going to kill me,” he says, his eyes so bloodshot they’re the same color as his shirt. 

Eylis doesn’t say a word as she drinks her ale. Cassandra threatening to kill Varric lost most of its terror — even for Varric, perhaps  _especially_  for Varric — some weeks ago. “Oh?” she says at last, when Varric doesn’t qualify his statement. 

"She’ll kill me, figure out a way to bring me back, then kill me again," he says, rubbing his face with his hands. "Hawke was bad enough, but this —" 

Eylis barely manages to avoid spraying a mouthful of ale over the table. “ _Hawke_?” she splutters. “Oh, Varric. Leliana’s been dreading this.”

Varric groans and falls back in his chair. “I know, I know.” 

Eylis drops her half-empty mug to the table. “Cassandra really is going to kill you.” A slow wave of pity courses through her, mellowed by the ale already in her system, and she reaches across the table to pat Varric’s arm. “I’ll make sure she’s not public about it. You have my word as Inquisitor.” 

Varric snorts. “Great use of power.” He groans again, then steals Eylis’s mug and drains it in a swallow. Wiping his mouth on a scrap of linen, he meets her eyes with a sigh. “That’s not the worst part, though. I got a letter from Hawke this morning — she’ll be here by nightfall, and she’s not coming alone.” 

_Oh, shit._ Eylis has only heard rumors about Hawke and her  _friends_ , and while the worst one — the apostate who murdered the Grand Cleric, and dozens of others — is dead, by Hawke’s own hand, the rest of the rumors aren’t encouraging: a Dalish mage who might  _just_ use blood magic, an eternally dithering deposed-prince-turned-Chantry-brother. And wasn’t there another elf, one with lyrium in his skin, always at the Champion’s side? Strange companions for one who styled herself a hero. 

Not that Eylis can really judge; she’s still not sure what Sera does, and the Iron Bull is…the Iron Bull. 

"Who’s coming with her?" she asks, while Varric lifts her mug and gives it a mournful look. "The guard-captain?" 

"Aveline? Ha." Varric shakes his head, and gives a nod over Eylis’ shoulder. A moment later, the tavern maid appears with two more fresh mugs of ale, and leaves after a much steadier curtsy. "I told you before, if she leaves Kirkwall, the whole damn city’ll slide right into the water. Probably be for the best. That place is a shithole and always will be." 

"The mage, then? Or the —" 

"The pirate." Varric shudders, but he’s smiling as he drinks his ale. "I know you wanted another elf around to do elfy things with, since Sera turned out to be such a disappointment. But you’ve still got Solas." He winks at her over the rim of his mug, and Eylis flushes before she can lift her own mug to hide it. 

She doesn’t  _have_  Solas, and a few kisses mean nothing at all. 

_Especially if they were_ Fade  _kisses._ She frowns at her mug, and sets it aside. Solas is a smooth, river-polished stone, with no break in his control — except those kisses. Those warm, hungry,  _damned Fade kisses._  

Across the table, Varric is still talking, without really requiring a response. “I’m surprised Hawke managed to give Broody the slip, he’s learned everything’ll be on fire if he leaves Hawke alone for — you all right, Lavellan?” 

Eylis looks up to find Varric’s eyes on her, still bloodshot but concerned. She forces down her disappointment and offers him a smile.  _Nothing will come of it. Let it go_ , she tells herself. So she hadn’t kissed anyone else before. What of it? For all she knows, kissing means very little, in the Fade or out. 

_It meant something to me_ , she thinks plaintively, and feels her smile slip. 

"I’m fine," she says, to forestall any more of Varric’s questions. "So, this pirate’ll give Cassandra fits?" 

Varric cocks an eyebrow at her, but doesn’t push. “Maybe even more than Hawke,” he says, with a dry laugh. “Rivaini’s a…” 

"What am I, now?" 

The new voice comes from behind Eylis, and when she twists around to see who’s speaking, the setting sun blazes into her eyes through the open door. She blinks to clear away the tears beading along her lashes, and finds two human women standing before her. They grin at Varric, their teeth white in the dim light. 

"Come on, Varric," says the honey-eyed woman, with the last of the day’s light reflecting off her gold jewelry. Eylis can’t look away. "What am I? I can’t wait to hear this." 

*** 

Nearly two hours pass before the door creaks open, but Fenris finds enough amusement in the bottles lining the mantle to keep himself occupied while he waits. He cracks the neck of one, and finds the dark blue glass contains Antivan brandy. Not something to drink in great gulps, then, but to savor in sips, slow and easy, rolling down his throat to warm him after his journey. 

He takes it in gulps regardless, shutting his eyes against the burn as he swallows and remembers drinking from another bottle, the rim already warmed by another pair of lips. Pale, kohl-rimmed eyes gleaming at him in the dark, thin, scarred skin under his threadbare covers. 

A week before, he had come to the meeting place ready to inhale her scent, to memorize her laugh anew, only to find a letter scrawled on scraps of parchment. She had been there and gone, warning him she had gone to Skyhold, and she would come to him as soon as she could. 

He had felt rage then, as he had not in years.  _Skyhold._ Straight into the heart of the Inquisition — straight to the Seeker, and all who she had spent so long avoiding. Damn her. Damn her and her foolish ideas of loyalty to those who felt none for her. 

Damn him, too, for not moving fast enough to catch her on the road. 

The bottle is half-empty when Hawke opens the door, and Fenris feels his heart twist in his chest. It has been a year and some weeks since he last saw her, too busy drawing eyes away from her hiding places under the guise of hunting Tevinter slavers (but oh, did he _hunt_ ). The sight of her in the doorway is like the spark of flame leaping from flint and tinder.  

They stare at each other, without speaking. Hawke is too honest to feign surprise, nor does she try to hide the flash of guilt crossing her features. Fenris places the bottle on the table between them, and stands. 

"Are you drinking to stay or forget to be angry?" she asks, pushing the door closed with her foot. "And is there enough for me?" 

He pushes the bottle toward her. The only sound in the room is the whisper of glass on wood, and the heavy sloshing of brandy. Hawke’s footsteps make no sound in the thick carpets; in her dark dress, with her dark hair, she is nothing more than a blur of white skin in the darkness. If he touches her now, his handprints will glow black and bruised on her arms. 

"You came  _here,”_ he says as she drinks. “Of all places, Hawke.  _Here._ With Isabela — _"_ He stops himself, for while that hurts, he cannot help being glad that at least someone was with Hawke as she walked through these gates, even if it was not him. 

Hawke swallows, swipes her arm across her mouth as she grimaces at the taste. “That’s awful,” she says. She pushes the bottle away. “Well, it seems to have worked out for Isabela,” she adds, her hands twisting in her skirts. “She’s with the Inquisitor. They’re quite intimate now.” A shadow of a smile flickers over Hawke’s mouth, and is gone with a sigh. 

Ferris waits.  _Do not touch_ , he tells himself.  _Do not touch._ Hawke will explain in her own time, her own way. She has never lied to him. She will never lie to him. He need only wait. 

"Varric wrote me a letter," Hawke begins, and Fenris growls. 

"Of course he did. And you came  _running_. Four years of hiding, and you chose now to help?” 

Hawke takes a deep breath, like she is gathering strength for a fight, but a moment later she sighs, slump-shouldered and weary. “Alistair is worried, Varric is worried, there was a hole in the sky, and  _Corypheus_  is back. The time for hiding was over, Fenris. We don't have much time left. I must -- ” She runs her fingers through her hair, eyes closing.  

"I would have come for you, Hawke. You would not have had to do this alone," he says, unable to bear the sight of Hawke so tired. Under her paint and rouge, she is exhausted, and he longs to brush it all away, and to take her from this high and lonely room to somewhere warm and quiet. A secret house, built for now only in their minds, along the edge of a river. Cool grass, ancient trees, the only noise the song of the river and Hawke’s laughter. 

He never should have left her alone. Four times he has seen her in as many years, for fleeting days and nights, and he cannot waste time now with anger. There will be opportunity enough, in the morning, for all the anger and fear he carries with him. 

So he sits down, his arms held out to her, and the relief on Hawke’s face nearly draws blood. She straddles him, her dress hiked high up on her thighs, and then he smells nothing but her, sees nothing but her, tastes nothing but her. 

"I made you a promise. Nothing in the world," he whispers, as she gasps and strains against him. "Nothing." 

*** 

Later, as they huddle under thick furs and kiss, he asks her the same question he has asked her for the last four years. 

Hawke sits up, the furs falling from her shoulders, and pushes her tangled hair behind her ears. “Any children I have might be mages,” she says, without looking at him. 

Fenris forgets to breathe. This is closer to an answer than she has yet given him, and while a part of him whispers that this is no answer at all, his heart knows the truth: that she has, at last, considered it. 

"So long as they don’t set the house on fire during a tantrum," he says, and gets no farther. Hawke laughs, her head thrown back, and then her mouth is on his, warm and fragile. 

"You must be mad," she murmurs between kisses. "Or I am. Fenris, are you sure?" 

She asks that, when all that has kept him sane as he hunts is the thought of peace, of Hawke round-bellied and smiling, of dark-haired small ones at her breast, of holding her and the new life they kindled together in his arms. 

Fenris wipes away a smudge of paint from her cheek, and offers her not words, but a small smile. Never, never at all did he believe he would end here, with such a woman and such promise laid out before him. This happiness is all theirs, and if he must walk through the fires once more at her side to ensure it, he shall do so. He has promised no less.

She kisses him again, with more heat than warmth, and thoughts of anything else are driven from his mind. 

When she slips out of bed and dresses, he does not wake. 

*** 

The ale in the tavern is good, nothing like the swill they served in the Hanged Man, but Hawke shoves her mug to the side after two swallows. No taste for ale, nor food. Not tonight. No taste for conversation either, but she found Varric cleaning up after a game of Wicked Grace and couldn’t escape him. Not that she tried; he’s coming with her, as soon as the packs and horses are ready. 

Varric’s voice comes to her from across the table, and only seven years of listening to all the shades of Varric’s expressions tell Hawke that he’s forcing it, for her sake. “Can’t believe Rivaini went and caught herself the Inquisitor. Wonder when Chuckles will pull his head out of his scrolls long enough to notice.” 

She hums, non-committal, then shivers as the wind blows through the doorframe. It’s a bad night to start a journey, cold winds and no stars, but she’s managed to travel through worse. And if she doesn’t leave tonight, she won’t leave at all.

"Hawke, you know you could go home." Varric sets his mug down with a clatter. "You saw us through Crestwood. We can handle the rest." 

Hawke doesn’t bother raising her eyebrows. “I could,” she says. “But I’m going to see this through to the end. You know me.” 

"Dammit, Hawke —" Varric closes his eyes. "I should never have asked you to come. You could never resist a hopeless case." 

She wants to laugh off the statement, but it’s true. Too true. How else could she explain Anders, and letting him go so long? Even now, it seems his blood is still on her boots. 

"No," she says. "I can’t. And you…" 

_You should have left me alone_ , she thinks. She doesn’t say it, because Varric is one of her dearest friends, and she has so few of them left. But oh, how she wishes he had written another chapter of his books instead of a letter to her. 

"Broody’ll go with you." 

"Like hell he will," she spits, the sudden surge of anger surprising her. "Fenris stays  _here_ , in Skyhold.” 

"You think he won’t follow you? I heard him — nothing in this world will keep him from your side, all that kind of shit." Varric pushes his own mug away and leans over the table. "He meant it." 

Hawke knows Fenris did. He’s chosen to follow her through whatever hell she decided to walk through. She waited for years for him to say  _enough_ , and leave. He never did, and now she’s leaving him. He’ll wake up in their bed, up near Skyhold’s eyrie, and find her place cold as last night’s ashes. 

"I know he did." She traces a gouge in the table, and wonders what the wound she’s about to deal Fenris will look like when it heals. It will heal. She has to believe that if she’s to face what comes next. "That’s why we’re leaving tonight. Alistair’s waiting for us in the Western Approach." Varric swears under his breath, and Hawke smiles. Always smiling, always laughing. That’s her, the foolish, flighty Hawke, with a little talent for magic and a great talent for trouble. "I wrote him a letter," she says, tripping over her words. "He can read just as well as I can now, if not better. And it gives him something to keep, if —" 

"Shut  _up_ , Hawke.” Varric’s face twists, and his hands clench. “You’re talking like — like you’re not even planning on coming back.” 

"Oh, I’d like to," she says, with an airy wave of her hand, forcing her smile to stay in place as she feels the first great tear beginning inside her. "We have plans, Fenris and I. Not big ones, but they’re ours. A little house in the woods, near a river, where it’s quiet and…" 

The tear opens, and for a moment Hawke hears nothing but the rush of blood in her veins. If Fenris walked through the door now, she’d confess everything, pour out all her troubles and cares, and he would listen. He would follow. 

Her hands shake. She has her answer for his question now — oh, she’s had it for months, but what would be the use of saying it now? Yes or no, it doesn’t matter. Her belly will stay empty as famine’s breadbasket. She will never feel his hair or skin under her fingers again. The house along the river will never be built. 

But he will be safe, for as long as she can guarantee it. 

_Time to go, Hawke._

"Well, we’ll see," she says, and tosses a few coin onto the table. "That should about cover it, wouldn’t you say?" 

"Hawke," says Varric. He’s gone so pale. "He’ll never forgive you." 

Hawke nods. He’ll love her, he’ll mourn her, but he won’t forgive her. She swallows her tears, to keep for company on the road. “It’s my last gift to him. All this will be done, and he’ll be free.” 

Varric only looks at her, speechless. 

"He’ll be alive, Varric," she says. "Nothing else matters." 

She sets her mind to the road, and begins to walk. After a moment, she hears Varric’s chair scrape against the floor, and his footsteps follow hers. 

***

Hawke always had a talent for self-fulfilling prophecies. She’d say  _oh, we’ll be fine, don’t get your smalls in a twist_  just before a fight with mercenaries who outnumbered them three to one, and then a few hours and bloody noses later, she’d be buying them all rounds at the Hanged Man. It’s easy to follow a person like that, who seems to carry good luck in their pockets, just in case the fabric tears and a little luck spills out for you to catch and cling to. 

Some people are born lucky. Varric, he was born smart and funny. Most days he does quite well with that, with a bit of help from Bianca or his fast mouth if the situation calls for it. Isabela’s the same way, though she has the advantage of being able to play dumb when it suits her. He never learned that trick. Oh, and then there are the ones who are born and grow up like a rose in a patch of weeds, soft and lovely till someone gets too close, and then it’s all thorns, straight to the roots. 

Hawke is —

"The Inquisitor!" yells Cassandra, and surges past him. Varric can barely lift his head, punch-drunk and slow as a bear in winter. He hasn’t caught his breath, and something in him aches, just below the surface. 

Lavellan and Alistair tumble out of the rift, and a handful of shocked seconds pass before she can slam it closed, before the fighting stops. Five heartbeats, two breaths, and then the fortress rings with the heavy clang of weapons falling to the stones, and the air fills with a thousand cries of relief and victory. 

Varric shouts  _what are you doing, where’s Hawke?_  but the words are lost in the clamour. Lavellan catches his eye, her pulse jumping in her throat, and raises her left hand. 

_What are you doing?_ Varric screams, still unheard as he fights his way toward her.  _Where’s Hawke?_

Lavellan gasps as she wrenches the rift shut, a sound like the air’s been pulled out of her; for a moment, Varric thinks she’ll sink to her knees under the effort. She staggers, but he doesn’t move. He watches her sway in place, and feels nothing when she stays on her feet. 

She’ll be fine. If she needs someone to give her a hand, let the Seeker do it, or Chuckles. Varric won’t touch her. 

In the stillborn, desert-night heartbeat of silence between one cheer and the next, his voice rings out like a bard’s. 

"Where’s Hawke?" 

No one speaks, though someone’s foot scuffs through the sand gritted on the stones. Lavellan’s eyes close, just for a second. 

"She stayed behind," is all Varric hears, before the noise in his head rises, and words as clear as those printed on a page fill the space behind his eyes.   

_Some called Hawke lucky, or brave, or an idiot, but the truth was, she was some unholy mix of all those things, and —_

Varric chokes. Already he’s thinking in the past tense. He’s thinking like a writer, figuring out how best to immortalize those last few moments, when Rhyssa Hawke finally, irrevocably proved her worth. 

It’s a great story: the tragic, misunderstood heroine sacrificing herself for the greater good, one final thumb in the eye of everyone who called her a fool. 

Hawke wasn’t a fool. Hawke had a soft heart and a hard head, and she knew, always, damn her, the cost of what she was doing.

"I’m sorry," Lavellan says, for him alone. Her hair hangs in loose, lank curls around her face, and a deep cut on her neck slowly oozes blood. "She…volunteered. She wanted to stay." 

_No, she didn’t, but you can’t offer Hawke an impossible cause and expect her to say no._ Varric waves Lavellan’s words away and backs into the crowd. He can’t hate Lavellan; she made a choice, same as they all did, and same as Varric made the choice to write his letter and bring Hawke back out into the light. 

It’s no more Lavellan’s fault than it is the sky’s. It’s his. All his. 

A flash of white up on the ramparts. Varric’s chest feels hollow as an old barrel as he squints to focus. 

Bloodstained armor, a sword grasped in a loose fist. Of course Fenris hadn’t stayed in Skyhold. Nothing in the world would have held him there, once he knew where Hawke had gone. 

Varric watches Fenris stare at Lavellan, at the place where the rift had spilled green and gold light over the fortress. He’s close enough to see Fenris’s clawed fingers clutch at the air, and for Fenris to mouth a single word. 

It’s the exact kind of scene that Varric’s readers crave: the bereft, bewildered lover, moments too late to save his beloved, mouthing her name while the blood of those he killed to reach her still drips from his armor. 

Three years ago, Varric would have done anything to write this scene. 

Tonight, he can’t even watch. He looks away, hoping he’ll find the words to explain to Fenris that Hawke’s last hope was for him to live, but when he looks up, Fenris has disappeared, a ghost in name and now, finally, in truth. 


End file.
